when tomorrow comes
by camellialice
Summary: Enjolras is haunted by nightmares, Grantaire is, well, Grantaire, Courfeyrac can't shake an odd sense of guilt, Jehan's writing weird poetry and Eponine just wants everyone to stop being idiots and kiss already.
1. rain will make the flowers grow

_infinite thanks to my dearest freddie for being an awesome beta. this is my first time writing for this fandom, so i hope it's okay!_

_(if you're following my other story, i'll return to it eventually, i promise)_

* * *

Enjolras wakes up covered in sweat and blood, and can't breathe until he realizes the blood isn't actually real.

Another dream, another nightmare, another haunting fiction where he imagines his friends all dying, one after another, gunned down in a battle he's never heard of. They come almost every night now, bits and pieces of what he's sure must be a larger story. Flashes of scenes, screams, gunfire and sobbing. It's awful. It's gory. It won't go away.

He turns to his side and sees his cell phone lit up with five new messages, all from Grantaire, who texted him drunk from Courfeyrac's party. Enjolras had left early, exhausted from lack of sleep, and proceeded to have yet another restless night.

His nightmares always end the same way: He's in a dark room and about to die, when a voice shouts, "Long live the Republic!" And then suddenly someone is next to him and asking, "Do you permit it?"

It's that voice that haunts Enjolras, even during the day, an unrecognizable stranger who must have burned with some kind of fiery passion, must've had something worth dying for. Maybe it was the Republic, maybe it was even Enjolras. He admires that, admires the way the voice never shakes, not even with guns aimed at his chest. To die for something you believe in is an admirable way to go, even if you are a fictitious person of one's dreams.

Enjolras likes to think he has that kind of passion (he does), likes to think he'd do as much for his own beliefs (he would), wishes he knew who dies beside him every night.

Combeferre is knocking on his door, offering breakfast.

Enjolras deletes each text from Grantaire without reading them and gets up.

_~o~_

Grantaire wakes up many hours later on Eponine's sofa, dashes to the toilet, and vomits.

When he's finally feeling well enough, he staggers to her kitchen table and drops himself onto a chair.

"You were dead drunk last night," Gavroche offers helpfully from across the table, and Grantaire leans his head against the cool plastic of the table.

"D'you really love Enjolras that much?" Gavroche continues, undeterred. Grantaire closes his eyes tightly. "Only you talked about him a lot. It was really funny, actually, until Ponine made me go to bed."

"Finish your cereal and go away," Eponine calls from the doorway.

"I don't want it anymore," Gavroche complains, and slides off his chair, disappearing in a flash of blue.

"How do you feel?" Eponine asks, lifting Grantaire's head and taking his temperature. "I didn't wanna send you home, considering the state you were in… Do you remember anything?"

"No," Grantaire mumbles.

"That's probably for the better." At the sight of Grantaire's confused expression, she explains, "You and Enjolras had a huge fight."

"Oh no," Grantaire moans. "Does he hate me?"

Eponine sighs. "Of course he doesn't hate you, doofus. Everyone can see that, except you and him, apparently."

"Fuuuuuuuck," Grantaire groans.

"Want some Advil?"

"Yes please. And coffee. And death."

"Would you like fries with that?"

"Fuck you."

"I love you too."

She gets up to start the coffeemaker and he reaches across the table for his cell. No new messages, but he apparently sent plenty last night, including some to Enjolras.

**Grantaire:** Enjolras pleasse

**Grantaire:** Don'tr hate nme

**Grantaire:** I'm really realyl soyrry pleasee come back

**Grantaire:** I thnik i love you

**Grantaire:** It's really hared to t ype on this thing why are all yhe lettes so s mall

Grantaire wants to curl up on Eponine's couch and die.

_~o~_

They go to a club, which is actually rather fun, if only in that it provides the opportunity for Eponine to laugh at Jehan and Enjolras behind their backs (and dance and drink as well, but that's beside the point). She giggles softly at the two of them, sitting by the bar: Jehan looks like a lovesick puppy, and Enjolras like he's about to go on a murdering spree. She follows their gazes to the center of the dance floor, where both Courfeyrac and Grantaire are grinding enthusiastically with a pair of very attractive, very curvy girls.

Jehan looks away, and Enjolras tightens his grip on his water bottle, crushing one side of it.

It's officially time for Eponine to intervene.

She downs the rest of her drink, stands up, evades the drunken reach of Montparnasse (what a creep) and weaves her way over to the downtrodden pair.

"Sup," she begins, leaning against the bar, and Enjolras eyes her warily.

"Nothing," he shoots back defensively, too quickly to be subtle.

"Look," she sighs, because it's too goddamn late in the evening to be delicate about this. "If you guys are going to be all butt hurt about it, just go ask your boyfriends to dance."

She's barraged by cries of "He's not my boyfriend!" from both of them, and only responds by raising an eyebrow and ordering another drink.

The song changes and Jehan, thoughtfully, rises and drifts towards Courfeyrac, who beams at the sight of him. Score one for Eponine.

"He's not my boyfriend," Enjolras repeats emphatically, this time just to her. "I don't have… feelings for him. And it doesn't bother me that he's dancing with someone."

"Not even a little bit?"

Enjolras hesitates, and doesn't exactly answer her question. "What does bother me is that he keeps wasting himself—I mean look at him, drinking and dancing when he could be doing really great things. He's brilliant, he just doesn't care about any of it."

"Uh huh." Eponine declines to mention what she knows Grantaire does care about deeply. "Have you tried telling him that?"

"Of course," Enjolras huffs.

"Nicely?"

Enjolras is silent.

"And you really aren't bothered to see him dancing with that girl?"

Again, silence.

"Well," she shrugs, "speak now or forever hold your peace, because I think she's turning around to kiss him."

Enjolras turns white.

She sips her drink and watches Jehan and Courfeyrac, giving Enjolras space to think. They are dancing a merry sort of jig, bouncing and twirling about with their hands clasped, and stand out exceptionally from the rest of the grinding, pulsing crowd. They look radiant.

"Having fun yet, Apollo?" At the sound of Grantaire's voice, Eponine resists the urge to whip around, and instead eavesdrops from her seat as Grantaire slides next to Enjolras.

"So much fun," Enjolras responds dryly. "Who's the girl?"

"Oh, I dunno. Someone. I can't remember if she had a name."

"Oh."

Eponine smirks into her glass at the note of satisfaction in Enjolras's voice, and looks up in time to see a new figure wade through the dance floor to the bar. He's gawky and geeky and walks more like a marionette than an actual person. He's an unusual person, and a familiar one.

"Ponine?" Grantaire calls her back to the real world. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah sure," she mumbles, and then shakes her head to clear her thoughts and turns to him.

"I swear I know that guy," she whispers.

_~o~_

His name is Marius Pontmercy, and he's adorable.

He moves in with Courfeyrac within a couple of weeks, to the dismay of Jehan and Eponine but to the delight of Cosette, who lives about a block away from Courfeyrac's apartment.

Cosette has had boyfriends before, of course, but this time is different. Marius is different. He is exactly what she has been waiting for, what she has always imagined to be the perfect boyfriend. They fit together like two lost pieces of the same puzzle, and after a week of dating they know each other as well as if they've been together for years.

"Does it count as a honeymoon period if we act like an old married couple?" Cosette wonders aloud, and Jehan ponders this.

"Just call it love," he eventually decides. "Because that's what it is."

"Soulmates, maybe," Cosette says. "That's what it feels like. Like we were meant to be together, you know?"

"Yeah," Jehan agrees thoughtfully, and Cosette knows whom he's thinking of.

"I'm sorry," she rushes to say, "I know you—"

"No, it's quite alright," Jehan laughs, cheerful as ever. "What you two have is beautiful. Watching you be happy together makes me happy."

Cosette smiles, and returns to braiding his hair.

_~o~_

Jehan's poetry has lost its floral qualities, its lightheartedness. His obsession (and it is an obsession, Courfeyrac insists) with love is being gradually eclipsed with darkness and loneliness that Jehan doesn't recognize and is baffled by. He's had a hard time in the past, sure (how could he not, going to a high school like he did and dressing like he does?) but the memories of those feelings are nothing compared to what is pouring through his pen onto the soft pages of his notebook.

It scares him, to be honest. He's losing his voice, himself.

One of his poems describes the emotional trauma of entrapment, another, the pain of distance from his friends, but Jehan has always kept his friends close by his side.

He doesn't show these poems to anyone. When Courfeyrac asks if he is okay, Jehan smiles brightly and kisses his cheek. (Courfeyrac blushes, and no one says anything, because this is Jehan, right? And Jehan kisses everyone.)

So Jehan keeps writing, because he can't not write poetry, and worries and wonders and smiles when his friends ask what's wrong, because he is Jehan and that is what he does.

_~o~_

Jehan expresses himself through his writing, Grantaire through his art, Enjolras through his words, but Courfeyrac has nothing. He doesn't know what to do about the intense bouts of sadness that sometimes hit him during meetings, the silence that consumes him when he goes home and stares at his bedroom ceiling, the way his stomach flutters when Jehan looks at him and the guilt that weighs heavily on him when the poet seems sad.

That last one he can't even explain, let alone express. So far as he knows, he has done nothing to hurt Jehan (he would never) and yet… sometimes, his mind wanders to Jehan and he hates himself and doesn't know why.

When Jehan kisses his cheek, dances in the street, reads a recent poem or even just smiles (brilliantly, like the sun is bursting out through his face), Courfeyrac feels his heart swell and his stomach sink, and part of him wants to reach out and hold the poet while another part feels he ought to turn away. He doesn't deserve Jehan, he doesn't deserve to even be witness to the way Jehan views the world (rosy and bright, beautiful and full of love), he lost all such privilege a long time ago, when he did something that he now can't even remember.

It preys on him infinitely, and when Jehan kisses his cheek, Courfeyrac turns red, and hates himself.

_~o~_

Grantaire has ruined another meeting, and Enjolras is in a foul mood.

"Could we just switch locations and not tell him about it?" he moans, sprawled dramatically across the couch. Combeferre and Courfeyrac both groan.

"I'm kidding," Enjolras reassures them unnecessarily. Combeferre knows that no one would ever want to abandon the Musain, least of all him. "It's just that he's so bothersome. It's as if he makes a hobby of annoying me. Why? What's the point?"

Combeferre has heard this too many times to count. He can't even remember all of the innumerable occasions on which Enjolras has cursed Grantaire's presence, but he knows Enjolras couldn't bear to lose him. Courfeyrac is clearly thinking the same thing, and looks over at Combeferre every once in a while as if asking what to do.

"Can't we just get rid of him?" Enjolras complains.

Courfeyrac sighs, more loudly than was perhaps necessary.

"What?" Enjolras asks suspiciously, sitting up.

Courfeyrac looks to Combeferre, who most sincerely does not want to get dragged into another of these arguments and instead buries himself in his philosophy textbook. Courfeyrac sighs again, and slides on the sofa beside Enjolras, placing his hands on the other man's shoulders.

"My dear Enjolras," he says gently, "you are an idiot."

Combeferre looks up in time to see his friend's shocked expression, and has to stifle his own chuckle.

_~o~_

By the next meeting, though, Enjolras has had enough.

"Could you please just leave?"

A pained expression flashes across Grantaire's face before he shuts it down and laughs. "At least you're blunt about it," he jokes. "No beating about the bush this time, you just come right out and say what you mean. It's what I've always admired about you, Apollo. The way you aren't afraid of kicking people to the ground if you don't like them."

That's totally unfair, so Enjolras explodes at him. "You show up late, you distract our members, you reek of alcohol and contribute nothing, you make fun of our ideals and mock our methods, and then you want us to accept you? Why should we? You're a hopeless, cynical, sarcastic drunk, and you take away more than you add!"

Grantaire is standing too now, and he makes his way to the front of the room to face Enjolras. "Because," he says calmly, "It's all _bullshit._ You can't honestly believe this nonsense about making the world a better place—I mean, come on, Enjolras, you're an intelligent young man, you of all people should understand that the world is shit, and nothing you do is going to change it."

"That's not true," Enjolras seethes.

"Really? Because trust me, I've seen more of the world than you have, and it fucking sucks!" Grantaire is getting louder now, angrier, and something about him seems personally invested in the argument. "You put your faith in something and it comes back to bite you in the ass. I've seen it over and over again, and just because you act like the messiah and blab about a better tomorrow doesn't mean it's not going to happen to you."

"Then why?" Enjolras spits out, and he's burning with rage, at this infuriating man and also a bit at himself, though he doesn't know for what reason. "Why do you keep coming, if you don't believe in any of this?"

"I believe in you! And maybe you're stupid and idealistic but you make me want to believe in all the utopian crap you spew. And I don't even know why, because underneath it all, you're just another bastard, aren't you?" Grantaire storms out of the café, slamming the door behind him along with a gust of cold air, which Enjolras barely feels because he's still flushed with anger.

What Grantaire had said made no sense, barely answered his question, gnaws at something deep inside Enjolras. And now Grantaire is walking away, into the street, and something about the sight of him leaving makes Enjolras react without even stopping to think.

He follows him outside and yells after him, "What does that even mean?"

Grantaire whips around, and his eyes are rimmed with red.

"It's because I fucking love you, okay?"

Enjolras freezes, unable to respond. Grantaire scoffs, but it sounds more rueful than derisive.

"It's not like it's some sort of secret, alright?" His voice cracks. "I love you. I always have."

And Enjolras can't move, can't breathe, and all of a sudden he's struck with an image—no, a memory; it crashes into him like a torrent of cold water: a recollection of that same dark room from his dreams, his vision stained red with blood, a calloused hand in his and a soft voice asking a question—no, _the_ question, the one that has haunted him for months, that makes him feel like he's been torn in two and stitched back together again…

_~o~_

Grantaire knows. Grantaire has always known, since the moment he saw Enjolras in the café, glorious and shining and everything that Grantaire had fallen in love with so many years before (a love that never really died, not even when bullets pierced his heart and he collapsed to the hardwood floor, soaked with scarlet).

And Enjolras is standing there, looking like the floor gave way beneath him, and Grantaire is struck by a revelation.

He wants it to be over.

He wants to stop pining over this unreachable god, wants to stop feeling like a piece of worthless shit, wants to stop the memories of his friends' screams (because he never forgot, can't ever forget). He wants it all to float away, wants to escape the chains that bind him to this never ending cycle of love and pain and heartbreak, wants to go home and cry and sleep forever and not have to worry about it all anymore.

He draws in a deep breath and exhales hoarsely. "Whatever you have to say, please, just say it. I swear to you that nothing you say now could hurt me any more than I am already hurting."

Enjolras just looks at him like he's seeing him for the first time, so Grantaire bites back his tears and turns away. If he's gonna do this, he thinks, he'll do it with dignity (at least until he's safe at home, then he'll drink until he passes out on the couch).

Before he can take a step he's caught up in a strong grip and Enjolras is turning him around again, fingers digging into Grantaire's upper arm.

"Grantaire," he murmurs, eyes drinking in Grantaire's features as if there is something worth seeing there.

"That's my name," Grantaire chokes out, forcing a wry smile. He's not sure if it's remotely successful.

"It's you, it's really you." Enjolras brings his spare hand up to cradle Grantaire's cheek and Grantaire hesitates a moment, savoring the warmth against his face, before tearing away. "It's always been you," Enjolras says as if to himself, and Grantaire can't tell if he's being made fun of, so he just leaves.

He finally, finally walks away from it all, and for once, he almost feels free.

And then a voice, an unmistakable voice, strong and clear, calls out from behind him: "Do you permit it?"

And Grantaire couldn't take another step even if he wanted to.

He slowly turns his head (and Jesus Christ, all this turning back and forth is making him dizzy, or maybe it's the way Enjolras is looking at him, like he's the only one in the room, the world).

"You remember," he manages, and then real tears are streaming down his face but it's okay because in a few strides Enjolras has caught up to him and is holding him like he's something precious, fragile, even, holding on to him as if otherwise he might disappear. Grantaire looks up, wiping away at his eyes, and thinks of how he'd never really want to disappear, especially if that meant leaving _this_ behind. But before he can even finish that thought he's swept into a kiss, and warm hands are cradling his face and his own hands are finding their way into the trademark tangle of beautiful blonde curls and Jehan might be clapping somewhere in the distant room encircling their own private universe, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters, except Enjolras's mouth against his own and the knowledge that he is remembered.

_~o~_

"What was that about?" Combeferre leans over to ask. "I mean, I'm happy for them, but…"

"No idea," Courfeyrac whispers back. "But thank god, they finally got their shit together, I've been waiting for this forever."

"Just savor the moment, 'Ferre," Eponine advises from Combeferre's other side, taking his hand in hers. Courfeyrac raises his eyebrow at this development, but doesn't say anything.

"Get some!" Courfeyrac instead whoops at the couple in the middle of the street, and Grantaire flips him off without detaching his lips from Enjolras's.

"I'm going inside, before I catch a cold," Joly grumbles, so Bossuet takes off his jacket to give to his boyfriend.

Cosette and Marius, meanwhile, have taken advantage of the distraction to make out as well, certain in the knowledge that no one is looking their way. (Courfeyrac doesn't say anything.)

And Jehan… Jehan is clapping, delightedly, and happens to look over when Courfeyrac is watching him with a smile. He flushes and grins back, and Courfeyrac's heart warms and then—

_and then there is silence, and a single gunshot pierces the air_, and Courfeyrac opens his eyes to see Jehan frowning slightly. He runs over to the poet and hugs him tightly, and Jehan adjusts himself in Courfeyrac's arms enough to look up at him, his eyes full of questions.

"The barricade," Courfeyrac answers, and Jehan's mouth falls open, his eyes wide, as if he's only just remembered. He probably has. Courfeyrac might be sick.

"I—" Jehan begins, and can't finish.

Courfeyrac is now tearing up so he just says "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" and buries his face in Jehan's shoulder, Jehan, who is pulling away and Courfeyrac doesn't blame him, who would, he died alone and afraid outside the barricade and Courfeyrac should have done something, anything…

But soft hands are lifting Courfeyrac's face and big eyes are looking into his and a gentle voice is saying, "It's okay, I'm here, we're both here," so he kisses Jehan, beautiful Jehan who forgives him and loves him and the guilt, at last, is slipping away.

_~o~_

There's a fuckton of kissing going on, but Eponine isn't even bitter about it. She doesn't so much as glance at Marius (whose face is smashed into Cosette's), but instead smiles into Combeferre's lips as the world she once knew comes rushing back to her. She remembers pain, starvation, blood, misery, and death, and she can't even pretend to say she misses it. What she's got here is a slightly dysfunctional and majorly incestuous family of friends, and it's really all she's ever wanted.

It starts drizzling and Joly shrieks, causing Combeferre to break away from the kiss and laugh against her cheek, so she starts laughing too, and then she hears a chorus of laughter, and everyone looks up and truly sees each other for the first time in over a hundred years. There's laughing and hugging and a bit of crying, too as the light pitter patter of raindrops grows into a downpour, and then Jehan's dancing in the street and Courfeyrac is beside him and Feuilly and Bahorel run to join in. Eponine grabs Combeferre's hand and steers him towards the impromptu dance party and he goes hesitantly but happily, consenting to waltz with her in the rain. Enjolras looks on from the side while Grantaire nuzzles against him and Eponine takes a moment to reflect on how infinitely happy she is.

In their former lives, they lived and fought and died by each other, but now they love and laugh and dance together, and here, in the rain, they start over.


	2. with you my world has started

On AO3 this is a series, so i just turned it into chapters here. They're not really in any particular order at all, but i didn't know how else to convey the connection between the stories...

* * *

One wintry morning, Grantaire follows his friend into a little café and his world stops.

Grantaire knows Feuilly from his sculpture class, and Feuilly knows Bahorel from kindergarten (Jesus, they've known each other forever), and Bahorel is friends with Bossuet, who's dating Joly, who has a crush on Musichetta, who's working at a café where some guys started a social justice club and it's pretty cool and you guys should totally come.

Grantaire snorts into his drink and says, "Fuck no."

When Eponine picks him up at one in the morning, he is one hundred percent wasted. She takes him home and holds his hair as he vomits over the toilet.

~o~

The next morning, he wakes up feeling like total shit, and sits up when he smells coffee. He stumbles to Eponine's table, where she's waiting for him, fully dressed.

"We need to talk," she says before he can even sit down.

"Why are you even dressed?"

"It's a Wednesday. I have school. You do too, R."

"Fuck that." He reaches for a bagel.

"Seriously, Grantaire, I am being serious. With my serious face."

"I see your serious face."

"You were really drunk last night. Like, puking on my floor level drunk. On a school night. Do you see the problem here?"

"Is this the part where I promise to give up drinking? Because that's not happening."

"I know, R, I know. But get your shit together. Go join a club or something."

~o~

So one wintry morning, Grantaire follows Feuilly into a little café and his world stops.

~o~

"I actually know one of these guys, his name is Enjolra or something? He's in my history class, and he never shuts up," Feuilly informs him on their way to the meeting. "I think they're called Les Amis de l'ABC, Joly said—"

Clever, Grantaire thinks, and zones out. He literally could not care less about social justice or being friends with the oppressed. He really just wants to go home. But alas, Feuilly's opening the door to the café, which is a small relief, at least, in that he gets to escape the cold, and really, he should have brought a scarf and—

And he freezes in the doorway, eyes locked on a man he thought he'd never get to see again.

~o~

Enjolras has always glowed with an irrepressible passion, a fiery flame burning from his heart outwards, illuminating every room he walks into, every conversation he joins, every life he touches.

And once, a hundred or so years ago, he touched Grantaire's.

Standing in the door of a small, unassuming, cramped café, filled to the brim with posters and books and broke college students, Grantaire's former life comes crashing back to him: snippets of meetings and booze and friendships but mostly Enjolras, a sort of revolutionary angel flitting from memory to memory, shouting, yelling, inspiring, terrifying, charming, beautiful. Grantaire stands before his golden god of Liberty and for once in this life, he can't speak.

Enjolras blinks and says, "Who's this?"

~o~

There's a new kid at the meeting. Feuilly brought him. He's doesn't say much, but even so, Enjolras finds it very difficult to look away from him. He's gorgeous, but not in a very traditional way: A beanie is squashed over his dark curls and he's kind of slouching in his seat, but his eyes are bright and sharp and follow Enjolras around the room. His shirt is covered with paint splatters and his pants unfairly tight, and Enjolras thinks he shouldn't be hot at all but he is, very much so.

Enjolras is on fire that night. He tells himself it isn't for the benefit of the new kid, but he can't help the way he looks over for a reaction after each speech.

"His name's Grantaire," Bahorel tells him after the meeting. "I'm still not sure how we convinced him to come."

"I hope he says something next time," Enjolras muses.

Bahorel quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing.

That night, Enjolras has a nightmare.

~o~

"I take it the meeting went well?"

Grantaire considers all the possible answers to this question, and settles on, "Uh-huh."

He can hear Eponine's laugh over the phone. "Feuilly said you were mooning over someone the whole time."

"I was not mooning!" Grantaire cries, outraged.

"Uh huh."

"Do you ever feel like you've been waiting for someone all your life, and then all of a sudden they're right in front of you and they don't even notice you?"

"Er, no. Sorry. Look, I gotta go, someone's coming over…"

"It had better not be Montparnasse."

There is silence on the other end.

"Goddammit, I thought you two had stopped fucking."

"I think he's at the door, I love you, good luck with your crush!" And before Grantaire can respond, the call ends with a click.

~o~

Because Grantaire is Grantaire, and unable to resist blonde men in red jackets named Enjolras (of which there is only one in the world, thank god, he couldn't handle another), he goes to the next meeting. This time, he actually says something, even if it's only to point out how wrong Enjolras is. This earns him a glare.

And oh, Grantaire has missed that glare.

So it begins, the back and forth of their familiar arguments, the steady and comforting rivalry Grantaire is used to, and even if it sort of hurts, he doesn't care, because now at least Enjolras has noticed him.

When Grantaire doesn't fit in somewhere, he usually leaves. But here is Enjolras, and he has to stay, so he tries a new strategy: he makes a niche for himself.

~o~

Enjolras remembers the first meeting, and wondering what sorts of new and exciting things Grantaire would contribute. He now wants a time machine so he can go back to that day and slap himself.

Grantaire is, in short, the bane of Enjolras's existence. He's an injustice in and of himself. He saunters into meetings and tears down every word Enjolras says, laughs at their ideals, drinks nonstop in his corner. It's awful. It's unfair. Enjolras would kick him out, if the others would let him.

They all think Grantaire is great. Enjolras wonders if he still has any faith left in majority rule.

But they keep holding meetings, and Grantaire keeps coming, and Enjolras keeps trying to save the world, and Grantaire keeps obstructing him, and Enjolras seethes and goes home to have nightmares.

~o~

It's a month before Grantaire starts bringing Eponine to meetings, two months before he feels a part of les Amis, three before he's invited to a party at Courfeyrac's house. Grantaire likes Courfeyrac, always has—there's something about his easygoing friendliness that makes him instantly likable.

And even if Enjolras wasn't coming, Grantaire has enough friendships within the group that he'd go anyway.

Jehan brings a girl from his English class, and Enjolras spends the whole evening talking to the two of them. She's passionate about women's rights, is studying Gender Politics, wants to get involved with Les Amis, and is absolutely gorgeous. And cheerful. And brilliant. And perfect.

Grantaire is miserable.

And if that wasn't bad enough, Courfeyrac decides they should play Truth or Dare.

~o~

It's actually not an awful party, thus far. Enjolras finds himself forgetting entirely about the History paper due next week, and instead has fun. Jehan's brought a girl named Cosette, who's really passionate about a lot of causes and keeps asking about Les Amis. She'd be a great addition to their group, and he invites her to the next meeting. She beams and Jehan smiles and Courfeyrac looks dreadfully unhappy.

It's because of this unhappiness that Enjolras agrees to play a game. He almost never does, but if it'll make Courfeyrac happy, he'll do anything.

Well, almost anything.

"I'm not telling you that!" Enjolras is certain his face is red.

"You picked truth. You have to tell us," Jehan informs him.

"That's personal!"

"I think that's the point," Combeferre chimes in, unhelpfully.

"Come on, Enjy, how many people have you slept with?" Courfeyrac asks again.

"Don't call me that!"

"You're not a virgin, are you?"

"Oh, Enjolras!"

"Of course he's a virgin," Grantaire interjects. "Have you seen him? Our celibate Apollo? Untouched by human hands?" There are snickers. Enjolras's face is definitely red.

"Two!" He finally says, glaring at Grantaire, who says nothing, while the rest of the group reacts unnecessarily. "Jehan, Truth or Dare?"

"Truth."

And because he is feeling spiteful, he asks, "Who, in this room, do you write your love poems about?"

Jehan's face goes scarlet, Cosette covers her mouth, and before Jehan can answer Courfeyrac rockets to his feet. "New game!" He declares, and grabs a bottle that Grantaire has emptied.

"You can't be serious..." Combeferre groans.

"Oh, my dear, 'Ferre, but I am. Quite serious." He places it on the ground and asks, "Who first?"

"Grantaire hasn't gone," Eponine chirps, and Grantaire glares at her. She smiles sweetly and hands him the bottle.

"Spin!" Courfeyrac cheers, and Grantaire does.

It points to Enjolras (of course), whose stomach drops a couple thousand feet.

Grantaire's face has gone white, and he looks up at Enjolras with something akin to fear in his bright blue eyes. His tongue darts out almost imperceptibly to moisten his bottom lip and Enjolras almost seriously considers reaching across the circle to take Grantaire's face in his hands and kiss him, imagines running his own tongue across Grantaire's lip and into his mouth, wonders what Grantaire would taste like, and snaps out of it.

"I'm not playing," he says, more sharply than he meant to, and stands up.

Grantaire is stone-faced.

Immediately Enjolras regrets what he's said but he's already standing and can't take it back now. He picks up his glass and goes to refill it with water, and as he turns on the tap he hears Courfeyrac say, "Well, if Enjolras isn't going to take advantage of this golden opportunity..."

Enjolras walks back in to see Courfeyrac snogging Grantaire quite enthusiastically in the middle of the circle, and beelines back to the kitchen, where he rests his head against the cupboard and wonders why he suddenly feels ill.

~o~

Cosette comes to the next meeting, which is delightful, save for the suffocating tension in the room. Jehan hasn't spoken to Courfeyrac since the party, Enjolras won't look at Grantaire, and Eponine seems pissed at all of them.

Grantaire isn't going to even pretend it didn't hurt when Enjolras outright refused to kiss him, but he can't say he was surprised. This is the way things have always been, will always be, and if Grantaire's feelings about Enjolras haven't changed, why would he expect Enjolras's feelings about him to?

It sucks, it really does, but Grantaire is used to things sucking.

Halfway through the meeting, Jehan excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Grantaire follows him, without bothering to excuse himself.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course I am," Jehan smiles, and Grantaire wonders if he knows how bad of a liar he is.

But Grantaire also knows that Jehan doesn't want to talk about it, so he takes another route. "Look, I just wanted to find out... There's nothing going on between you and Cosette, right?"

Jehan is baffled. "What? No."

"Good, because Courfeyrac was really upset during the party. He thought you two were... well, it doesn't matter."

Jehan is struggling to contain his grin. "Oh, gosh no, we just... Um. I'd better get back to the meeting."

And he practically skips out of the bathroom.

Grantaire wishes things were this easy to fix with Enjolras.

~o~

Enjolras has wished since the party that he could take back what he did. He's always had a tendency to act rashly, and it often backfires on him, and this time, it hurts especially hard. He can't even look at Grantaire, because all he sees is Grantaire and Courfeyrac kissing: their lips locked together, eyes closed, Grantaire's hand reaching up for Courfeyrac's cheek. Grantaire doesn't speak during that meeting, not even when Enjolras secretly tries to provoke him into debate, and Enjolras finds himself missing the cynic's input more than he ever thought he would.

"Just go talk to him," Combeferre says after the meeting, and he doesn't even have to say Grantaire's name for Enjolras to know who he's talking about.

So before Grantaire can follow Eponine out the door, Enjolras taps him on the shoulder, and pretends not to notice the expression in Grantaire's eyes when he realizes who it is.

"Can we talk?" Grantaire nods, so they go over to the corner and sit. Enjolras taps his knees nervously.

"Look, I just wanted to apologize about the other night..."

"You don't have to."

"No, I was rude. It's not that I didn't want to kiss you- I'm not saying I want to kiss you, I mean, I- shit. I'm sorry."

Grantaire looks mildly amused. "I know you have no intentions of ever kissing me, Apollo. You don't have to apologize for that."

I do want to kiss you, Enjolras thinks, but instead says, "I'm not good at dealing with awkward situations-"

"I can tell."

"-and I panicked. That's all. It had nothing to do with you or anything, and I didn't want you to think that I hated you or anything."

"Point taken." Grantaire stands. "I'd better go, Ponine's waiting..."

"Right," Enjolras nods, and Grantaire leaves.

Enjolras goes home, and has nightmares.

~o~

Eponine walks home with Grantaire, and follows him upstairs.

"What was that about?" She asks, once they've reached the comfort of his sofa.

"Nothing." He stares up at the ceiling and counts the paint splatters.

"Really?"

"He apologized. That's all." Five. Three red, one green, one blue. He wonders how they all got up there.

"That was nice of him."

"Yeah, well."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You two really need to get your shit together."

"There's no shit to be gotten together." He wishes there were more splatters, just so he could avoid this conversation.

She sighs. "Please don't fuck this up. Your last boyfriend was an asshole, and I actually like Enjolras."

"He's not my boyfriend. He doesn't even like me."

Eponine snorts. "Uh-huh."

"Look, we're not talking about my love life. We just aren't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Does Enjolras know how you feel?"

"No. Shut up."

Eponine huffs. "You two are so stupid."

"Fuck you. I'm brilliant."

"Have you told-"

Grantaire sits up. "You wanna talk about our love lives? Fine. Let's talk about our love lives. How's Montparnasse, Eponine?"

Her expression darkens. "Fine."

"And you?"

"Fine."

"Really? I'm not so sure about that."

"Shut up."

"Where did those bruises come from, Eponine?"

"Shut the fuck up."

She looks close to crying, and Grantaire feels like an asshole, so he wraps his arms around her and pulls her against him. She goes limp in his embrace, and leans against his chest.

"We should elope," she whispers.

"Yeah," he hums against her cheek. "Let's get married and live in a house by the sea together."

"With Gavroche?"

"With Gavroche."

"Okay."

He kisses her cheek and holds her while they watch The Wizard of Oz, ghosting his fingertips over her purpley-green bruises and imagining a thousand ways for Montparnasse to die.

~o~

Months pass, and pass, and pass, and with each day Grantaire remembers more and more details about his past life. He remembers les Amis, he remembers the old Musain, he remembers drinking with his friends and waking up to blood and death.

He remembers the gentle pressure of Enjolras' hand in his, and the crooked half smile Enjolras graced him with, seconds before they died.

He wonders if Enjolras remembers, and with each passing week, he realizes that he doesn't.

He shouldn't be surprised (no one else seems to remember, not even Eponine), but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel like shit about it.

~o~

And Enjolras can't explain why when he fights with Grantaire, it hurts so badly, can't explain why he gets so angry when he sees Grantaire with other people, can't explain why the thought of losing Grantaire makes him so upset.

He's known Grantaire for a little over a year or so, but something about him makes it feel like forever, and Enjolras has no idea what.

He hates not knowing, but when it comes to Grantaire, he understands none of his own feelings.

Musichetta watches him watch Grantaire leave after a meeting, and sighs, "Ah, young love."

Enjolras throws a book at her while Joly and Bossuet laugh, but later that night, he wonders what she meant.

There's a part of him that feels like it's missing, like he's lost something and can't remember what, and maybe Grantaire's connected to that piece, because when Grantaire smiles at him, Enjolras almost feels whole, but has no idea why.

And then one day Enjolras does remember, and it's everything either of them could have hoped for.

~o~

They are watching Sherlock for the millionth time (Enjolras loves it, Grantaire loves him), curled up on the sofa with their legs entangled and fingers entwined. "When did you first remember?" Enjolras asks, looking at Grantaire over the lip of his mug.

"From the moment I saw you," Grantaire answers honestly, and Enjolras smiles, setting down his tea to kiss him.

~o~

One wintry morning, Grantaire follows his friend into a little café and his world starts.


	3. every day i'm learning

Eponine has spent her entire life caring for other people.

When Azelma got sick, she was the one who brought her medicine. When Gavroche got into trouble, she was the one who went to pick him up. When her two youngest brothers were taken away to be put in the foster care system, she was the one to tell Azelma and Gavroche where they'd gone.

She vaguely remembers a time when her parents were kind, pampered her, even, but those days are long gone. Ever since the restaurant was closed down, her parents have stopped being parents.

At first they were mean, then awful, then cruel, and it got worse and worse until they were arrested. Mum's dead now, and Papa's off roaming the streets with his gang, and Eponine doesn't have to worry about them much anymore. She'd say she misses them, but she doesn't, she's just relieved she no longer has to actively protect Azelma and Gavroche.

Eponine has spent her life caring for other people, but never learned to take care of herself.

~o~

Grantaire is the first person to point this out to her. She laughs and says, "I take care of myself."

He shrugs and doesn't say anything else, which is how she knows he disagrees with her.

"Can you take care of Gavroche tonight?" She asks him.

His head snaps up, and he glares at her. "Is this so you can have an adult sleepover with Montparnasse?"

"No," she lies.

~o~

The next morning she feels like shit (she always does, afterwards). She remembers the pained expression on Grantaire's face when she lied to him about Montparnasse, and steels her resolve. Today she starts taking care of herself.

He's sipping coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the sink with her favorite mug in his hand.

"Morning, baby."

"We need to stop doing this."

He sets down the mug and looks at her with hurt eyes. "No, baby, please don't do this to me. I need you."

She lets him stay.

~o~

The first time he hits her, she turns on her heel and walks out the door. This has always been her go-to response, ever since the first time her father hit her (she was twelve). She is used to it and knows to get away, get away fast. She says nothing, just turns and leaves.

She wanders about outside for a while and finally calls Grantaire.

"Hey, let's hang out."

"Aw man, I'm so sorry, I've got one of those meetings..."

She debates her options: going back upstairs or to a boring meeting. It's not a hard choice.

"Can I tag along?"

~o~

She calls Montparnasse after the meeting to break things off. He apologizes profusely.

"Please don't leave me, baby, I need you."

"Montparnasse-"

"You can't go. I love you."

She stays.

~o~

Combeferre wonders sometimes why he chose these people as his friends.

He's standing alone in Courfeyrac's kitchen, surrounded by empty bottles and the echo of Enjolras's harsh words. He knows why Enjolras is so upset, and wishes Enjolras did too. To him, it's obvious to nearly everyone that there's something going on between him and Grantaire, he can't believe the whole world hasn't noticed yet. The rest of Les Amis are beginning to, but slowly.

And then things happen like tonight, where Enjolras freaked out in the middle of Spin the Bottle (Combeferre knew that was a bad idea, from the moment Courfeyrac proposed it) and Grantaire's heart audibly shatters.

Combeferre waited six and a half minutes before following Enjolras into the kitchen. His friend was in a rage, ranting about everything except what's actually got him upset, and Combeferre told him he was an idiot and sent him home.

Now he's leaning against the sink, staring at the trash littering the island in the middle of the kitchen and wondering how people can be so oblivious.

~o~

Eponine goes into the kitchen in search of Enjolras (I won't hurt him, she tells herself, I'll just present him with a strongly worded argument as to why he's a dick). Her quarry is conspicuously absent, but Combeferre is there, leaning against the counter. He looks exhausted.

"Hey, seen Enjolras?"

He looks up. "Sorry, he just went home. He's not feeling well."

"I see," says Eponine, and thinks, Bullshit.

The corner of Combeferre's mouth twitches into a half-smile. "Were you looking to chastise him for his behavior tonight?"

"Something like that," she admits.

"Don't worry, I've got you covered. We had quite a... talk, before he stormed out."

"Did you tell him he's a dick?"

"Yes, but not in those words." Combeferre frowns. "He isn't a dick, not really. He's just oblivious."

Eponine snorts. "Impressively so."

"I think he really cares about Grantaire a lot. He's not good at showing it, but I've known him since high school, and I can read him fairly well."

Eponine slides onto a stool and leans her elbows on the island. "That's kind of nice to hear. Grantaire's infatuated with him."

It's Combeferre's turn to laugh. "Oh, I know. I can see that too."

"You're quite observant, aren't you?" She teases.

"I wouldn't say that," he protests. "I just like to watch people. And notice things. But I wouldn't say I'm very good at it."

"Tell me something about me," she begs.

He looks at her for a minute, and then says, "You're a caretaker."

She snorts. "What gave it away?"

"You're like a mother bear to Grantaire. And I can't say it doesn't help that you've been monitoring everyone's alcohol levels all night."

She blushes. "Yeah, well, I like you guys. Can't have you dying of alcohol poisoning."

He smiles again. His smiles are scarce, and she's seen more tonight than in the month she's known him. She decides she likes them. "Tell me something about you now."

They chat in the kitchen until the party ends, and then she helps him clear up. His company is quiet but reassuring, his voice is soft but nice, his smile rare but beautiful.

~o~

Montparnasse hits her for the ninth time, and she leaves, as always.

This time, he also threw a mug (her favorite mug, that bastard).

This time, he wasn't even that drunk.

This time, he drew blood.

This time, she has somewhere to go, so she heads down to the Musain. Musichetta is wiping down the counter, and grins broadly when she sees Eponine.

"Hey girl, how are you?"

Eponine doesn't know what to say, so she gives Musichetta a thumbs up and a quick smile. "Can I have a hot chocolate?"

Musichetta pauses. "Not the usual?"

"Nah, it's more of a cocoa day."

She settles into a booth by a bookshelf and picks up the nearest book. She glances at the cover and nearly drops it. It's Twilight.

"Not a fan?" Combeferre is standing over her with an amused expression. "Here's your hot chocolate."

"It's disgusting," she replies, taking the cup from him. "The book, not the beverage. I'm sure Chetta's hot chocolate is delicious..."

"Even though it's not your usual?"

"I wasn't feeling the coffee."

"Understandable." He sits across from her. "What's so disgusting about Twilight? I agree with you wholeheartedly, but I want to hear your thoughts."

"It's horrifically abusive. He treats her terribly and she loves him blindly, she's completely incapable of taking care of herself so she has to rely on the men around her to protect her. The only thing she's good at is taking care of other people, which is ridiculously sexist, and she's totally useless otherwise, which is why-" Eponine breaks off suddenly.

Combeferre eyes her carefully. "It sounds like she needs to learn to take care of herself," he says quietly.

~o~

Eponine makes it to Montparnasse's apartment (read: hovel) in record time. She doesn't even bother to come in, just stands on the doorstep, folds her arms, and says, "It's over."

"No," he moans. "You can't do this to me. I need you."

"I don't care."

"I love you."

"That's not enough."

"I promise I'll never hurt you again."

"Bullshit."

"Please, baby, I'll take care of you."

"No," she says, and pulls herself upright, standing as tall as she can. There's a fire burning in her that she's never really felt before. It's amazing. "I'm going to take care of myself."

She feels his eyes on her as she walks away, vaguely hears his protests, smiles to herself, and sips her hot chocolate.

~o~

"You did it," Grantaire says when he sees her next.

"I did it," she agrees, and his hug is warm and tight and comforting.

~o~

Combeferre is working in the library when she walks in. He's in there all the time, but she almost never is, and it's disorienting. And distracting.

Combeferre hates being distracted.

And that's the problem with Eponine, really, she's a constant distraction. During meetings, during parties, even when he's alone with his own thoughts she finds a way to the forefront of his mind.

He doesn't have time for that today.

So he ignores the way her face lights up when she spies him and buries his nose closer in the book he's reading. It doesn't work.

She's standing next to him, and he can smell her vanilla shampoo, and he can hear his own heart beating and the way her skirt settles when she stops walking and God, this paper's due on Friday, and she's such a distraction.

"Hey," she whispers, sliding next to him.

"Hi," he mutters.

"Are you free? I was wondering if..."

"Can we do this another time?" He asks, and it comes out quicker than he meant.

She looks at him closely. "Are you okay?"

And shit, now she's touching his wrist and he'll never get any work done at this rate so he pulls his arm away and snaps, "You don't have to mother me, Eponine."

He regrets it almost instantly.

She nods curtly, stands up, and leaves.

Christ, Combeferre thinks, I'm turning into Enjolras.

~o~

Combeferre sits next to her at that week's meeting, and offers to walk her home. She accepts.

"How are you?" he asks.

"Really, really good, I think."

He smiles. She really, really, really likes his smile. "I'm glad. I'm sorry about earlier, I was stressed and I snapped..."

"It's fine," she reassures him. "Really."

They chat about little things: the meeting, Enjolras's cluelessness, Grantaire's hopelessness, the way Jehan kept giggling whenever he talked to Courfeyrac. Eventually silence falls between them, but it's a comfortable silence. It's nice.

Eponine looks up at the stars and thinks yes, things are really, really good indeed.

"Would you like to hang out sometime?"

She's snapped out of her thoughts and sees that she's home.

"Just you and me, I mean.." Combeferre continues, and he looks unsure, nervous, awkward, even a little scared.

"Like a date?" She teases, and watches him blush.

"I guess? Kind of. Unless you don't..."

"I'd love to," she says honestly, and his grin lights up the street.

~o~

"It's because of Gavroche," she tells him. They're sitting on a bench in the park, looking up at the clouds.

"What is?"

"The hot chocolate."

"Oh?"

She takes a breath. "When Dad used to hit me, Gavroche would bring me hot chocolate afterwards. I think he thought it'd make me feel better. It kind of did."

He feels ice cold suddenly. "Someone hit you."

She nods. "My sort-of boyfriend. Not anymore, obviously. I mean, I dumped him." She fidgets with her travel mug.

"I'm sorry," he says, and her eyes flash.

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"I know. But I'm sorry it happened to you."

She sighs and takes his hand. "I really like you, 'Ferre. But I'm kinda broken, and you deserve a whole person. I don't want you to pity me, or feel bad, or try to fix me. I'm going to do that. I need to be the one to do that."

He nods, because that makes sense.

She looks at him, and for a second, her decisiveness wavers. "Is that okay?"

"Of course," he says, and squeezes her hand, ignoring the ache in his chest. "I care about you a lot, Eponine. And I know I'm not great at showing that or whatever but I really do, and if you ever change your mind, well, I'm here."

"Thank you," she says, and he knows that she means it.

~o~

**R:** eponine?

**R:** are you okay?

**R:** gavroche says you're drunk and dancing to single ladies

**Eponine:** i'm fine

**R:** courf and i are on our way

**Eponine:** no whyy courf?

**R:** courf to babysit gavroche

**R:** me to babysit you

**R:** don't break anything before we get there

~o~

Eponine answers the door and says, "I'm not that drunk."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Gavroche barrels past his sister and into Courfeyrac's arms.

"Where's Azelma?" Grantaire asks.

"Friend's house," Eponine responds with a shrug.

"God, it's like she's never here..." Grantaire mutters as he shuts the door behind them.

They settle on the couch while Courfeyrac plays with Gavroche in the other room.

"I broke up with Combeferre," Eponine announces abruptly. Grantaire nearly falls over.

"You were dating?"

"No."

He's baffled. "You're gonna need to elaborate."

"We went on one date and I told him I couldn't do it. That's it. That's all."

"Oh, 'Ponine..."

"What?" She snaps. "I can't have a boyfriend. We've proved that I'm entirely romantically inept. I might as well give up now."

"But Combeferre's such a good guy!"

"But I'm broken, Grantaire."

He looks at her, seriously, and she realizes he is sober. It's a bit of a surprise.

"Look, Ponine, I know all about being a fuckup, and you're not one. I'm a stupid, cynical drunk, who barely attends classes and pines over an unattainable Greek god. You're a kickass protector who looks out for everyone you love and just dumped Montparnasse, Asshat Extraordinaire, which took guts. So shut up and really look at yourself, because honey, you're not broken, you're just bandaged."

Eponine blinks. "Thanks?"

"You're fucking welcome. Now go to bed, it's late and I'm tired."

"I love you," Eponine says suddenly.

"I know," he replies with a wink, and kisses her forehead.

~o~

Combeferre wishes he could tell Eponine how amazing she is, how incredible she is, how she totally and utterly rocks his world, but he can't. Combeferre is quiet and sensible and that's all he is. He's the caretaker of les Amis, always has been, at least until Eponine came along.

When Eponine came along, she changed everything.

He's lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, when he hears Jehan enter the apartment. He closes his eyes as the ghost of Jehan and Enjolras's conversation floats through the door and to his room. Within moments, the hinges of his door are squeaking.

"Hullo, Jehan," he says dully. His friend climbs onto the bed beside him and curls up against his left side.

The thing about Jehan is that he doesn't pester you for information. He waits until you're ready to share, and then he listens. Combeferre, who has lived with Enjolras for the past three years, is grateful for friends like Jehan.

"It's Eponine," he admits finally. "I really like her, but. I don't know. I don't think we click."

"You do."

"How do you know?"

Jehan nuzzles against Combeferre's shoulder. "I do."

"She's not ready for a relationship. She needs to take care of herself."

"So do you."

Combeferre is thrown off. "I do?"

"Of course," Jehan says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. He sits up and faces Combeferre. "She's a caretaker. But so are you. You guys are like, I don't know, the parents of our group. You two keep us in line, clean up after our messes. She focuses most of her energy on her siblings, you focus it on us. You're the same, deep down."

"What do I do?"

"Stop moping in your bedroom, silly. Talk to her."

So Combeferre does.

~o~

He grabs her after the next meeting. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure?"

They sit on the window seat in the corner, facing each other. It's dark outside, but the city is glowing faintly, apartments and houses lit up in the distance.

"I was wondering if... I mean, obviously if you still feel the same way, we shouldn't, but..." He stumbles over his words in the way that he never does except around her. It makes her feel a little special.

He sighs and takes off his glasses, wipes them with his shirt and returns them to his face. "I really like you, Eponine. And I know you don't want someone to take care of you and that's okay because I don't want to take care of you. And I don't want you to take care of me. I get snappy and irritated sometimes and I'm not good at expressing feelings and I don't want you to try to fix that, and I'm not going to try to fix you. We each have enough people to take care of already, and I don't want to be part of your burden. I just want to be with you."

The rest of the room has cleared out by now and his words hang in the silence left behind.

"I like you a lot too," she whispers finally. "But I'm not very good at relationships."

"Neither am I," he shrugs.

She laughs and he smiles and gosh, what a beautiful smile. When she first met him he almost never smiled, but as she watches his expression soften in the glow of the reading lamp beside them, she thinks she could get used to this smile.

She kisses him, and behind them, the lights of the city twinkle beneath a billion stars.


	4. the colors of the world

Jehan loves thunderstorms.

At first, Courfeyrac doesn't get it. He pictures Jehan as a sunshine-and-butterflies kind of guy, and while Jehan does indeed adore sunny days, he also adores thunderstorms.

"I think they're just delightful," Jehan reasons, and Courfeyrac doesn't understand.

He begins to understand when he spends the night at Jehan's apartment during a storm. He isn't supposed to spend the night, but Jehan insists that Courfeyrac not walk home during such heavy rainfall. Courfeyrac, intoxicated by the poet's company, doesn't object.

The moment they first hear the distant rumble of thunder, Jehan jumps up with a squeal and puts the kettle on for tea.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Courfeyrac asks doubtfully. Jehan pretends not to hear him.

Next he disappears into his bedroom and returns with his arms full of quilts. He dumps them on the sofa and drags Courfeyrac over.

"What are we doing?"

"Snuggling."

Alright then, thinks Courfeyrac. I am very okay with this.

So they make tea and cuddle in a nest of quilts, listening to the rain splash against the windows and the thunder roll, and Courfeyrac is beginning to understand the beauty of thunderstorms.

_~o~_

There are a lot of things that Jehan teaches Courfeyrac, and most are about beauty. Courfeyrac can't remember much of life before Jehan, but it must have been horrifically drab and dull. Jehan sees the world differently from most people, finds elegance in everything, and Courfeyrac wonders if there was any color in his life before he met the poet.

_~o~_

Jehan has always sat next to Courfeyrac at meetings, ever since Enjolras first brought him meet Les Amis. It was awkward, that first day-Jehan was shy and Courfeyrac was too much to handle, with his beaming grin and easy friendliness and incorrigible flirting. It used to unsettle Jehan, before they were close enough that Courfeyrac began to let his guard down.

"You use your flirtatiousness as armor," Jehan explained to him once. "It doesn't make any sense. You hide behind a mask of congeniality, but there is so much more to you than a pretty face."

Courfeyrac looked thoughtful, and then his face split into a smirk. "You think I'm pretty?"

Jehan blushed.

Now, he looks at his friend and is grateful that Courfeyrac is comfortable enough to relax around him. Jehan admires Courfeyrac's extroversion but loves even more when Courfeyrac shows up at his door with a movie and says he needs to be away from people for a while. He cherishes the time they spend together, just the two of them, and treasures his memories of those precious moments. He wonders if this is the sort of feeling his favorite love poems refer to.

Courfeyrac catches his eye and grins at him. Jehan smiles back involuntarily, and turns to listen to Enjolras, trying not to think of his friend's warm brown eyes.

_~o~_

They're in a bar for Feuilly's birthday. It's a small celebration (because Bahorel refused to let Courfeyrac plan it, which he insists was a mistake), just them and their friends and an open tab. Musichetta knows the owner, which is probably why they haven't been kicked out yet, rowdy as they are-that and the fact that they're providing good business for the small venue.

Enjolras, of course, is boring as usual, sitting off to the side with a bottle of water while an increasingly inebriated Grantaire cajoles him. He'd agreed to come for Feuilly's sake, but even his respect and admiration for the birthday boy isn't enough to make him a fun drinking buddy. Combeferre, beside him, does drink, but only a little. Mostly he focuses his attention on keeping Enjolras from murdering Grantaire, though occasionally he seems distracted.

Jehan pokes Courfeyrac's side, drawing his attention away from his friends, and leans in close to be heard over the din of the bar. "He's been stealing glances at Eponine all night," the poet informs him conspiratorially. Courfeyrac follows Combeferre's gaze to the girl, who's laughing loudly at Bahorel's favorite (quite obscene) joke. She's a relatively new member of the group, but it won't take her long to figure out that he tells that one every time he gets drunk. She is nice, though, and could be a good match for Combeferre.

"It's about time that poor guy got laid," he tells Jehan instead, and his friend stifles a giggle, cheeks flushed pink with alcohol. The lights of the bar seem brighter than before, and Courfeyrac himself feels giddy and light-headed. He doesn't even notice the pair of men who come up behind him, doesn't register their presence until he hears the word "fag" flung his way. It's as if ice water has been poured down his spine. He straightens up and turns around to face them.

"What did you say about me?" he asks, with a faint imitation of cordiality.

"Not you," one of them clarifies. "Your pansy friend over there." He's gesturing to Jehan, and suddenly Courfeyrac feels a flash of rage. He's standing before he realizes it.

"Care to repeat that?" He tries to look as dangerous as possible, and hopes it works. It won't be long until Enjolras catches wind of what's going on, and that'll be a spectacle-but at this rate, Courfeyrac is kind of looking forward to it.

"Didn't you hear me?" Douchnozzle #1 laughs. "I wasn't talking to you. I was talking about the fairy."

Courfeyrac sneaks a glance to his right and shit, it's clear from his expression that Jehan has realized they're talking about him.

"Alright then," Courfeyrac begins, clenching his fists, but Jehan interrupts him by laying a gentle hand on his arm.

"Courf..."

"Come on, guys," Joly urges from Jehan's other side. "Ignore them. They're just assholes."

Courfeyrac doesn't want to ignore them. "They called Jehan a-"

"Aww, isn't that sweet," Douchenozzle #2 coos. "He wants to defend his faggy boyfriend."

That's the last straw.

"Please leave," Courfeyrac grits out. "This instant, actually, or I'll-"

"Or you'll what?" One of the dickheads taunts. He leans in close to Courfeyrac, gross beer breath ghosting over his face. "You gonna hit me? I'd like to see you try."

Courfeyrac swallows, because he knows deep down he probably couldn't even bruise the guy (though God, does he want to), but is spared from attempting to do so. In that moment, there is a sickening crack as a fist connects with the bastard's jaw, knocking him off balance.

"What the fuck," his friend splutters, and Jehan turns to him.

"I'm sorry," the poet asks in his most polite, innocent voice. "Did you have something to say?

"No-"

"Good," Jehan retorts, and punches him as well. He leans over the two oafs and says, carefully and deliberately, "Do not antagonize my friends or me again. Do you understand?"

They nod, and Courfeyrac is unable to wipe the awe off his face before Jehan looks up at him apologetically.

"Sorry about that," he says sheepishly.

"Are you kidding? That was-" Hot. That was really freaking hot and I want to kiss you, fiercely and passionately.

"Awesome!" Bahorel interjects. "That was awesome. Where'd you learn to hit like that?"

Eponine picks up the men on the floor. "You guys okay?" she asks sympathetically.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," one shrugs, massaging his jaw.

"Cool. Get the fuck out of here," she instructs.

He goes. His friend moves to follow him, but wavers, and turns to Eponine. "Are you free sometime? Because-"

"Would you like another mouthful of fist?" she offers sweetly, and he practically runs out of the bar.

The manager has approached their party now and clears his throat before addressing Musichetta. "I'm really sorry," he begins, "but I think I'm obliged to ask you guys to leave, bar policies, etc, etc..."

"That's okay," Bossuet assures him. "I think we're done here anyway."

When Courfeyrac crashes on Bahorel's couch at 3:00 the next morning, his last thought before drifting off to sleep is of Jehan, the fierce little poet who picks flowers and beats up bullies. Courfeyrac wonders how long he's been in love with one of his closest friends without realizing, but decides that is a train of thought to avoid until he's considerably more sober.

_~o~_

Jehan meets Cosette in a seminar on Romantic poetry. They go out for coffee afterwards and talk for hours. They gel instantly, agreeing entirely on every point but still finding plenty to talk about. He shares some of his most recent poems with her, and she asks for his advice on a paper she's writing for her Feminist Media Studies class. He tells her about Les Amis and her eyes light up with excitement. They're so absorbed in conversation that she nearly misses a text from her father.

"I'm so, so sorry," she apologizes, gathering her notebooks from the table and stuffing them into her bag. "It's just that Papa and I volunteer at the homeless shelter every Tuesday night, and I'm going to be late if I don't leave soon..."

"It's fine," he assures her, and stands to kiss her cheek. Jehan watches his new friend dash out the door into the brisk March chill and feels something within his chest warm. He sips his raspberry tea and texts Courfeyrac.

_~o~_

When Jehan asks permission to bring a friend to his party, Courfeyrac says, "Yeah, of course!"

When Jehan shows up on Courfeyrac's doorstep with a gorgeous blonde chick who stepped straight out of a Disney movie, Courfeyrac wants to take back his gracious invitation and shut the door in her face. Instead he greets them both with a hug and welcomes them into his apartment.

It's not that she isn't nice. Actually, the problem is that she's too nice. It's unfair for any human being to be that perfect. Even Enjolras is in love with her. And it's especially unfair that Jehan keeps smiling at her like she's the best thing that's ever happened to him.

When Courfeyrac can't take any more, he suggests a game of Truth or Dare. It's a welcome distraction, at least, until a red-faced Enjolras asks Jehan who he's in love with. Jehan blushes furiously and his eyes dart over to Cosette, who hides her gasp behind her delicate porcelain hands. The truth hits Courfeyrac like a train and he bolts to his feet so fast he feels dizzy.

"New game!" he cries rather desperately, reaching for one of Grantaire's many empty bottles.

"You can't be serious..." he hears Combeferre complain.

"Oh, my dear, 'Ferre, but I am. Quite serious. Who first?"

Eponine chooses Grantaire as the first victim, and Courfeyrac hands him the bottle as he sits down. He can't help but glance over at Jehan, who is looking pointedly at the ground. He returns his focus to the group in time to see Enjolras storm away from the game.

Maybe it's because he feels horrible, maybe it's because Grantaire looks miserable, maybe it's because he's been drinking, maybe it's because the tension in the room is suffocating, but Courfeyrac laughs and says, "Well if Enjolras isn't going to take advantage of this golden opportunity..." He looks across at Grantaire, who seems grateful for the diversion, and meets him halfway in the middle of the circle.

He doesn't look at Jehan before his lips crash into Grantaire's, and then he closes his eyes and lets himself forget about everything besides the feel of Grantaire's mouth on his, Grantaire's hand cupping his jaw, Grantaire's skin where Courfeyrac has inadvertently rucked up his shirt.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, Jehan is gone.

_~o~_

"Are you sure about this?" Cosette asks for the billionth time.

Jehan smiles at her. "Of course! You'll be a great part of the group, Enjolras loves you already."

"Not about that," she clarifies. "Courfeyrac. Have you talked to him?"

"No. Why should I talk to him? I don't need to talk to him." He unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches to open the door, but she grabs his arm.

"You need to talk to him," she says softly.

He sighs. "There's nothing to talk about." He gets out of the car.

Everyone adores Cosette as much as they should, as much as they did at Courfeyrac's party. But otherwise, the meeting is agonizing. Jehan can't bring himself to sit next to Courfeyrac, but as he picks a chair between Bahorel and Cosette he finds himself staring at his usual seat. With no one next to him Courfeyrac looks stranded, but Jehan drags his gaze away. He wants to leap across the table and hug Courfeyrac but he can't. At this point, the rift between them is too wide to even try to bridge.

When things get unbearable, Jehan flees to the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and glares at his own reflection. He sees nothing there, no reason for Courfeyrac to kiss him instead of Grantaire. His shoulders slump in resignation.

The door creaks open behind him, and he wheels around, leaning against the sink and attempting to look casual. A mass of dark curls appears and Jehan freezes.

"Are you alright?"

It's Grantaire. Jehan adores Grantaire. Grantaire kissed Courfeyrac. Jehan does not want to talk to Grantaire right now.

He plasters a smile onto his face. "Of course I am!"

Grantaire looks troubled though. "Look, I just wanted to find out... There's nothing going on between you and Cosette, right?"

The question comes out of the blue, and for a moment, Jehan feels like he's been knocked off balance. Him and Cosette? How could that ever be possible? "What? No."

Grantaire seems relieved. "Good, because Courfeyrac was really upset during the party. He thought you two were... well, it doesn't matter."

Jehan doesn't know exactly how to describe his emotions at this point. His mind scrambles as he tries to rearrange his entire perspective of the party. Suddenly everything clicks into place, and his jaw drops open.

He needs to talk to Courfeyrac.

_~o~_

Courfeyrac watches Jehan excuse himself and sighs. Enjolras breaks off in the middle of his speech when Grantaire leaves as well, eyes following the cynic away from the table. Combeferre nudges him and Enjolras hastily returns to what he was saying, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. Joly and Bossuet are gossiping in their corner, clearly worried. Eponine looks exasperated. It's been like this for the entire meeting. Courfeyrac wonders if it would be rude to go home.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and a soft voice whispers, "Mind if I sit here?"

Courfeyrac whips around faster to see his beautiful poet, and his heart leaps. "Please," he says, and hopes he doesn't sound too eager. Jehan takes his seat (and that's so much better, Courfeyrac thinks, it's so right to be beside him).

But then he remembers, and his heart sinks again. "Shouldn't you be with Cosette?" he asks.

Jehan smiles as if he's hiding some particularly amusing secret, and shakes his head. "She's not my girlfriend, Courf. Did you honestly think that?"

"No," Courfeyrac scoffs, but feels like ten ton weight has been lifted off his chest. "Um, do you wanna hang out tonight? We could watch a movie, or..."

"I'd love to," Jehan beams, and Courfeyrac wants to punch the air.

It's not a date. It's not a date. It's not a date.

_~o~_

Even though things are fixed with Courfeyrac, Jehan doesn't feel totally better. There's a weirdness he can't explain affecting his mood, his poetry. Sometimes in the middle of the night he wakes up, scared and alone. He has nightmares that mean nothing, flashes of pain and fear that don't come from anywhere. He feels like he's falling apart.

And then he remembers.

It's a big occasion, with a lot of crying and kissing, but the most important thing is that Courfeyrac is holding him like he could disappear at any second and Jehan clings to him as well. They hold each other steady and then Courfeyrac is kissing him, at first softly but then hungrily and Jehan never wants it to stop, not even when the sky breaks open and releases a shower of rain.

_~o~_

Jehan sees the world in a cornucopia of colors. He sees the shoots of scarlet that light up the sunset, the soft blues of the flowers he braids into his hair, the rich greens of the ivy climbing the walls of the university. Courfeyrac never bothered to notice half of the colors that surround him, not until Jehan showed him the vibrant hues infused in his environment. His world is so much more beautiful with Jehan in it, Courfeyrac thinks, as he squeezes Jehan's hand and lets the poet lead him forward.


End file.
